


like she pulls on the sea

by love_killed_the_superstar



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: 1800s, 1820s, 1830s, 1840s, 1850s, 1860s, 19th Century, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Historical References, Minor Canonical Character(s), Pre-Canon, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-11-12 16:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18014606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/love_killed_the_superstar/pseuds/love_killed_the_superstar
Summary: "she pulls on this heart like she pulls on the sea..."Snapshots spanning the decades of Josephine and Gertrude's life together.5. They are formerly introduced to Josephine's nephew and his family in 1866.





	1. 1826

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a little shocked no one has written shipping stuff for these two yet, so i'm giving it my best! i don't know a whole lot about canadian history, being british and this taking place like 200 years ago, but i've been doing some research so i hope it's fairly historically accurate. i had to take a few artistic liberties (like the fact that they managed to get a portrait of them in their young days somehow when portrait photography was only just becoming a thing in the early 1840s according to the internet??) but oh well. i did my best.  
> the fic title is from the song "That Moon Song" by Gregory Alan Isakov. In fact, the majority of that album gives me Josephine/Gertrude vibes, especially That Moon Song and If I Go, I'm Goin'.

_"Stand and face me, dear; release_

_That fineness in your irises."_

_-Sappho_

 

__

They meet in a Parisian bookshop in 1826.

The finishing school young Josephine Barry attends, Reynard's, allows Saturdays as a time for their young ladies to spend freely. Many watch the rowing on the nearby park lake, where their suitors picnic with them after the morning practice, while others take the time to write home, catch up on missed work, or are swept away on dates to art galleries, cafes and ballrooms.

For Josephine, she spends the time alone. She revels in her own solitude, visiting bookshops and galleries and historical sites in secret, and spinning tales of handsome beaus swanning her around Paris. Whether the girls at Reynard's believe her or not remains to be seen, but she'd rather have a reputation of being some kind of harlot than anyone ever discover the alternative. Someday becoming a spinster is one thing, but frankly, she lies awake terrified at night that someone might find out the sick secret she's carried since first laying eyes on her mother's youngest kitchen maid at the tender age of thirteen.

No matter. She's alone now, exploring the streets of Paris with reckless enthusiasm, pouring over paintings and books with hunger that she feels no need to restrain.

This Saturday morning in particular she finds herself drawn to a small bookshop just a twenty minute carriage ride away from Reynard's. She's visited it a few times in the six months she's been in France, and she's eternally grateful for her mother's insistence she learn written French as well as spoken – these books are her lifeline, and she finds herself drawn to one that she'd heard tales of back in Charlottetown: _The Private Memoirs And Confessions Of A Justified Sinner._ Being somewhat of a sinner herself, she'd been drawn to the title at the time, wondering if there really was someone out there feeling what she felt. But no sooner than three pages in, she feels a tap on her shoulder and turns around.

Behind her stands a woman unlike any she has seen before. For one thing, she's wearing a suit – a man's suit, sculpted around her body like the night itself. Her hair, a pleasant auburn, is neatly pulled back into a bun, secured with a neutral pin decorated with what looks to be a single amethyst.

Josephine opens her mouth and closes it a few times, just taking in the sight. Her heart is warm in a way she only used to feel watching the young kitchen maid at work, and she feels colour rushing to her face.

“Excusez-moi? Mademoiselle?” The woman begins, clasping gloved fingers together. Josephine suddenly remembers how to speak, but unfortunately, in the incorrect tongue.

“Um, yes? Is there a problem?”

The woman blinks, then her smile grows relieved.

“Oh, wonderful! You're Canadian! I'd recognise that accent anywhere!”

Josephine squints. “And you too...? Upper or lower?”

“Upper, of course. From the Maritimes. Nova Scotia to be exact, and you?”

“Prince Edward Island.” Josephine grins. “I... sorry, I didn't expect to run into a neighbour all the way here in Paris.”

“Small world.” The woman's smile fades. “Well, the truth is, ma'am, I saw the book you picked up and couldn't keep my mouth shut. It was bleak to read, frankly, it feels like you're reading some sort of legal document. Not to mention, so many characters die!”

Josephine balks. “I'm – I'm sorry?!”

The woman sighs heavily. “It's true. George is stabbed in the back, in a literal sense, and Robert, well, he takes a rope and makes a noose!”

Josephine's jaw drops. “Ex-Excuse me! I was still planning to read it, you know!”

“I'm doing you a service, my dear, trust me.” The woman plucks the book from Josephine's hands and returns it to the shelf. “Come with me, and I'll show you a whole library of books worthy of your wonderful eyes. My own personal collection.”

Josephine pats her ears. No, there's no water in them. A complete stranger of a woman with a strong Nova Scotia accent has decided to steal her away from her solitary browsing and an intriguing book to... what, propose an outing of some kind?

“I don't think I understand this situation at all. I don't even know you!”

“Oh, don't be so contrary. We're both Maritimers. We're kin! I would never harm a hair on the head of a fellow Canadian.” The woman says this solemnly, hand on her heart, before her mouth split into a wicked grin. “Now, do come along. It's been so long since I've talked with someone who understands the essence of maritime life, and I'd be terribly wounded if you refused to at least peruse my collection of prose.”

“I'll be expected back on school grounds by six,” Josephine warns, as the woman takes Josephine's hand in her own and leads her out of the bookshop. “I'm telling you, if I'm back late, they'll start searching for me.”

“Oh, so you're studying here?”

“I'd hardly call it studying,” Josephine says, eyes narrowing. “I'm at Reynard's.”

“Ahh, you do have that air about you. A proper lady.” The way she says it, rolling it around her tongue like a freshly picked berry, tart on the tongue, makes Josephine bristle self-consciously.

“And what exactly are you implying?”

“Just that proper ladies and I tend to clash. I thought you might be an artist, like me.”

“If you're so worried, I suggest you let go of my hand and be on your way.”

The woman stopped and turned back to look at Josephine with a smile.

“No, I like you already, ma'am. We've already made a connection, wouldn't you agree?”

Josephine shrugs her shoulders helplessly.

“I suppose so? We may be from the same heritage, but I don't even know your name.”

“Gertrude,” the woman replies easily. “Gertrude Vassall.”

Gertrude squeezes her hand, and Josephine swears her mind is washed out, like watercolour, at the extra pressure.

“Josephine,” she manages, weakly. “Josephine Barry.”

At the time, Josephine has no way of knowing that this impulsive and charming young woman is about to set the rest of her life in motion. She has no idea of the tears, the anger, the secret stolen dances in the Parisian backstreets and arguments over conformity behind the doors of their Edinburgh lodgings. She has no idea that this is a person who feels the same way that she does; that she's not broken, she's not delusional when she catches Gertrude watching her like Josephine handed her the world on a silver platter. She has no idea that they are about to spend the rest of their lives loving one another, in a way that can so rarely be spoken of, but when shared with the right people, becomes one of the most binding, intimate things in existence.

At this current moment in time, Gertrude Vassall is young, Josephine Barry even younger, and the two of them are about to embark on a journey that lasts them a lifetime.

 

 


	2. 1836

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They move into the old Barry home in 1836.

They move into the old Barry home in 1836.

Josephine's father, having passed away the year before, left behind a lot of material things, wines and old carpets and tapestries that Josephine would much sooner sell for a small sum to the antique shop in Charlottetown. It gives the Barry residence a haunted, musty smell and casts a shadow over each room, a reminder of him. She knows it drives her mother to despair, yet she can't bear to remove them. If she does, what remains of her husband, but their wedding rings and their spinster of a daughter?

Josephine's brother has found greener pastures and is residing in London, earning a lavish amount at a job that requires the bare minimum of effort, so long as you have a degree. He studied at Cambridge and never returned to Canada, not even for their father's funeral in the October. It is May now, and Josephine's mother laments to her.

“Why can't you settle down, Josephine?” she berates, as Josephine brings her a cup of tea. “Why can't you find a husband, marry? Charlottetown has a few charming businessmen, you know. Or we could arrange for you to meet with your brother's colleagues. He is working for a very respectable company, after all.”

“I know,” Josephine says distantly. “I'm sorry, Mother.”

Her mother sniffs, and reaches shakily for the tea.

“When is this friend of yours arriving?”

“Gertrude will be here any moment now, her ferry was supposed to arrive an hour ago. She told me she nursed her own mother on her deathbed, and... you know I have never been well equipped to care medically for others. I think she will be a great help.”

Josephine chooses not to mention that she and Gertrude have done more than exchange old wives tales in the last ten years, because that would surely send her mother over the edge, and she won't be able to cope with that on her own. She needs Gertie here, now.

“How disgraceful of you to imply that I am on my way to dying,” her mother scolds.

“Mother, you have Bright's Disease,” Josephine protests. “It's serious and if you get so much as a spot of strep, things could become complicated very quickly. I'm just saying that Gertrude will be a big help.”

“Hmm. And I suppose Gertrude isn't married either, if she has time to travel in from the mainland just to take care of an old widow?”

“I've told you before that Gertrude isn't a mainlander, she's from the Maritimes. Truro, Nova Scotia.”

“She's a spinster?”

“Well, she hasn't settled down with a man, no,” Josephine corrects, knowing her mother doesn't care a whit about the technicalities of it all.

“At least you won't be alone in your misery if you never find a husband.”

Sometimes Josephine wants to grab her mother by the shoulders and tell her to stop projecting all of her grief from losing her own husband onto her daughter instead. Sometimes she wants to tell her mother all about Gertrude and the wonderful years they've spent in Paris, Edinburgh, Florence, 'Toronto' (the beloved capital will always be York in her heart). Sometimes, she wonders if her mother will ever learn the concealed truths that make up Josephine Barry, if she'll grow to see Gertrude as a daughter of her own.

Acceptance, though she knows she would be lucky to ever have it, is a dream her mind conjures often. When she wakes up, it brings tears to her eyes, until she feels Getrude's arms draped over her chest, no care for decorum. The thought that the next time they'll share a bed will be after her mother's passing is... a hard thought to bear, to say the least. The fact that she wants for both Getrude's company and her mother's health makes the present feel impossibly bleak.

A knock at the door drags Josephine from her thoughts, and the maid hurries to answer the door.

“Why, hello there! Don't you look a pretty treat!”

The flustered sounds of the maid bring a smile to Josephine's lips. Trust Gertrude to charm the first lady she lays eyes on in this house. But when Josephine enters wearing one of her many wonderful suits, her mother begins to choke on her tea.

“Oh dear, Mrs Barry, I'm terribly sorry. Are you quite all right?”

Josephine alternates between rubbing circles into her mother's back and glaring daggers at Gertrude. She's begged Gertie through countless letters over the last six months not to show up to their residence in one of her suits, as much as she loves them herself. At this rate, her mother truly will end up keeling over and dying from shock before Bright's Disease ends her life.

“You – that's absolutely disgraceful! Get changed into clothing sensible for a lady at once! A dress, please!” Josephine's mother snarls in between harsh coughing fits.

“You can borrow one of mine,” Josephine mouths, and Gertrude rolls her eyes before picking up her suitcase and trudging upstairs.

“What kind of – deviant!”

“Mother, please! Gertrude is eccentric, I agree, but I promise you she's a wonderful person once you get to know her!”

“I take it you didn't meet her at Reynard's, then,” Mrs Barry sneers. “I can't imagine a proper lady parading around like that.”

“No, but we did meet in Paris. Gertrude is a writer. And she's ever so talented, Mother, her words are inspiring. Her poetry feels like silk on the tongue.”

Her mother doesn't want to hear it, and Josephine prepares a fresh pot of tea to fill the silence, pouring out three cups. By the time she is stirring in the sugars, Gertrude has emerged, in a frock the colour of the silken plum bedsheets of their old Parisian apartment. To Josephine's amusement and Mrs Barry's dismay, she opted out of wearing a corset underneath.

“I'm terribly sorry I made such a poor introduction,” Gertrude says, although her tone betrays her lack of remorse. Catching Josephine's warning glare, she switches tactics, plastering on a warm smile. “Anyhow, please, allow me to start over again. It is wonderful to meet you, Mrs Barry. I'm Gertrude Vassall. I'm very fond of your Josephine. She's been such a good influence on me. Sadly I wasn't given all of the best opportunities in life, but I hope by watching you and Josephine, I can grow into a refined woman too.”

Well, this is such a contrast to her demeanour from before that it gives both Josephine and Mrs Barry whiplash. They both stare at Gertrude for a few moments, too stunned to respond, before Mrs Barry clears her throat.

“Well. You certainly have your work cut out for you. Josephine went to finishing school, after all, and still finds herself unable to marry.”

Josephine frowns at the slight against her, staring hard at Gertrude as though to ask her, “Where exactly are you going with this, my dear?”

Gertrude smiles and clasps gloved hands together.

“My, my. Well, I have never thought myself to be the marrying kind. But having travelled the world, I have learned a lot. I think suffice to say, Josephine and I have taken a shining to one another, and I think she and I could perhaps... help each other in our trials of finding suitors.”

“Well, I think she can do better than the company in Truro, if that really is where you hail from,” Mrs Barry sniffs.

Gertrude laughs, but there's no humour in her eyes.

“I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mrs Barry, the Truro kind suit her just fine.”

“Mother, another sugar?” Josephine interrupts hurriedly.

Mrs Barry ignores the implications of Gertrude's words, narrowing her eyes.

“You certainly don't seem to come from an upper-class family. How on earth did you learn French fluently enough to thrive in Paris?” she asks instead, hoping to wound Gertrude's dignity with the accusation about her upbringing.

Gertrude doesn't waver. “I have French lineage, ma'am. My own mother prided herself in assuring we grew up speaking two tongues, to honour our heritage.”

“Well then.” Mrs Barry sniffs again. “Josephine mentioned you're a writer. I didn't think women _could_ be authors and make a living from it. A lot of men certainly don't care for what we have to say.”

“I use a _nomme de plume_ ,” Gertrude explains with a smile. “A pseudonym. It earns me more sales. But there are plenty of historically famous authors who have been women, Mrs Barry. Aphra Behn was a novelist in the 1600s. The first novel ever written is said to be written by a woman! The Tale of Genji. So while men may not appreciate what we have to say, they appreciate what's written in ink. As long as they don't realise those words are from a woman's brain, that is.”

Mrs Barry sits back in silence, before saying distantly, “This is why you aren't the marrying kind, Gertrude.”

No one quite knows what to say after that, but it is soon time for Josephine's mother to retire to bed. One of the maids offers to sit up with her after bringing her supper, and Josephine shows Gertrude to the room she had prepared for her.

“Oh, I'm so thankful to be together again with you at last, my love,” breathes Gertrude, the moment they are alone.

“It's wonderful to be living under the same roof again,” Josephine agrees, shutting the door behind her and leaning back against it. “But I'm afraid it'll be a while before we can lie beside one another again, my Gertrude.”

“Not until your mother's passing. I'm sorry, my dear.”

Gertrude takes Josephine into her arms, kisses her forehead.

“I'm a bad daughter.”

“No, no you're not.”

“I am,” Josephine whispers, and her eyes fill with tears. “I keep... waiting, and waiting until we can be together again, just us. It's been so hard to bear since Father's passing, just me and her on our own in this big house, and when she's not mourning him she's berating me for not living up to her impossible standards... and then I wish to be left alone, and be with you, but I know the next time we lie together, it will be because she's...”

Her breath hitches with a sob, and Gertrude hugs her tightly.

“My love. I have you in my arms. Please don't despair.”

Josephine's mother passes away just three months later, with Josephine sleeping at her bedside, a book of poetry in her slackened hands. While the coroner is fetched, Gertrude covers her face with a blanket and holds Josephine as she cries, pressing kisses into her hair. If the maids notice, they decline to comment.

 


	3. 1846

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get the photograph taken in 1846.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the little think piece that managed to inspire a multi-chaptered fic. I was curious about the photograph and wanted to write about it. Photography was in its very early stages in the 1840s so I guess I should have made it so they took the photo later, but they look pretty damn young in the photo, so this was the compromise I came up with.  
> Jabez Meal wasn't, as far as I know, on the LGBTQ+ spectrum. That's purely speculation on Josephine's part. Gertrude's other friends (besides Caroline and Sally, who are random OCs) do happen to be historical figures living about this time who were known for being LGBTQ+.

They get the photograph taken in 1846.

Gertrude has been secretive all morning, seeming unusually jumpy, and avoiding Josephine's exasperated questions, until she gave up asking, leaving the breakfast table with a roll of her eyes. After a morning hidden away in their small library, penning a strait-laced letter to her brother in London, Josephine had ventured out with the intent on tracking Gertrude down and insisting they go somewhere pleasant for the day, since the weather called for it. But it seems that fate has other plans in mind.

When Josephine lays eyes on the camera equipment being set up she blanches and turns to her lover, betrayed.

“Gertrude, you promised!”

And she had. Josephine has been protesting the very idea of having a portrait taken together since the notion of photographs had swept through their many circles of friends. It was one thing simply to live like this, to exist with Gertrude like husband and wife, but she was ever cautious of leaving behind a trail of clues that would lead her family to figure out the nature of their way of living. A couple photograph was about as blatant evidence as one would need in a court of law, she imagined. And so, she had shot down the idea each and every time Gertrude had begged.

“I know,” Gertude sighs, adjusting her top hat. “I know I said I wouldn't, my dear heart, but it has been 20 years to this day that I whisked you away from that bookshop in Paris and, well, quite swept you off of your feet, don't you remember?”

“Of course I do.” Josephine folds her arms in disapproval. “But you know how I feel about this, and you also know _why.”_

“Do you honestly believe that your brother will bother to return to Prince Edward Island when he's thriving in the business world of London?” Gertrude asks, amused. “He's settled down there and has a family of his own now, doesn't he?”

“Yes. He and his wife have a son now. Little William.” Josephine smiles fondly, recalling the letters she'd been sent. “I know, he's doing far too well over there to justify returning to Canada any time soon... but I still worry, Gertrude.”

“If fate has a surprise visit from the Barry clan in store, I will personally take a shovel and bury our portrait in the grounds, in such a remote location that I shall have it marked specially on a map for retrieval once they're gone,” Gertrude says, with such conviction Josephine doesn't doubt the idea. “So please, relax.”

“I don't even understand why we _need_ a photograph,” Josephine mutters. She adjusts the collar of her dress, pats her hair. There has always been such a pressure on her to appear immaculate, and if they're really going through with this, it will be immortalised. Shouldn't she be looking her best? “I shan't wake one morning forgetting a face like yours, my dear.”

“I'm inclined to agree,” Gertrude teases. Her hands snake around Josephine's waist and she pulls her in closer. Josephine looks around self-consciously, but the photographer is indifferent. In fact, Josephine wonders if he may in fact be someone with a similar persuasion to them, from one of Gertrude's many social circles. “Listen, Jo. Friends of ours have been taking portraits with their husbands, their wives, their children. It symbolises belonging. And although I will sadly never have the pleasure of calling _you_ my husband or wife...”

“Because we can't be,” Josephine reminds her, sourly. “Such a thing is unheard of, you know that.”

“You're right as always, my girl. But with a photograph, we can pretend. We already look the part, with you in that lovely white frock, and me in a suit as handsome as any high strung fellow you'd find in the mainland. Why not play along? And then if the photograph survives my many burials-” Josephine stifles a laugh, because the very notion that Gertrude would bury and dig up a photograph multiple times instead of simply leaving it buried is such a _Gertrude_ thing to do, “-perhaps we can pass it on when we're both gone. Remind the generations that come after us that we were once here. That we existed.”

“My word, if little William ever found this,” begins Josephine with another laugh.

“After the heart attack he'll no doubt have... he can decide what to do with it, of course. He can burn it or take a page from my book and bury it,” Gertrude muses. “Or, if he... happens to be like us... he can take comfort in it. Treasure it.”

“If you didn't have so many unusual friends, I would never have believed there were more than two like us in the entire world,” Josephine sighs, and Gertrude leans over, pressing a kiss into her hair, purposely mussing it. “But I suppose, if there ever came a time that little William, or any of his children, or grandchildren, ever needed to know how much more there is to the world...”

Gertrude grins.

“We need to be remembered, don't we? Even in another time?”

Curses. Nothing makes Josephine weak in the knees like her Gertrude spouting Sappho of all the muses.

“Fine! You've worn me down. But what a sorry tale this will make at next year's winter soiree.”

Getrude bursts out laughing, and Josephine joins in. The photographer, Jabez Meal, interrupts the moment to point out that he is catching a ferry back to Southampton from Charlottetown in a few hours, having travelled to Prince Edward Island on short notice after recently selling his daguerreotype portrait studio back in Philadelphia. He doesn't have all day to dally, and can they hurry it up?

Rolling her eyes, Gertrude takes Josephine's hand and leads her over where they have the love-seat set up. Josephine sits while Gertrude stands over her, staring down at her adoringly. Josephine doesn't look back; instead she stares away from the camera, nervous smile plastered on her face, at a painting hanging in the parlour of two young women running through a field of flowers, painted by a friend of theirs, an amicable ex-lover of Gertrude's who still sends her longing glances each year at their soiree. Josephine holds no ill will towards young Caroline, since she sends a beautiful charcoal cityscape of the view from her home in Boston each Christmas, tied in navy ribbon and with a short note wishing them a fruitful year every time.

Really, it's strange how many friends they have collected from ex-lovers as the years go by. There are times where lovers can separate without hate and malice in their hearts, though Josephine would never have known that from listening to the gossip from her mother's sewing circle throughout her teenage years. Similarly, there are times where she simply forgets about the very existence of men, living peacefully in her and Gertrude's small corner of the world, a feat she would have thought impossible before meeting her love all those years ago in Paris.

The world is wide, and maybe it won't hurt to have a physical reminder of that as time goes on.

In the time she took to ponder all of this, the photograph has been taken, and the next thing she registers is Gertrude leaning down to kiss her while Jabez rolls his eyes and turns away, checking the condition of the image.

“Oh, would you mind terribly if I showed this off at the next soiree?” Gertrude asks, beaming from ear to ear. “I want to show Caroline and her new sweetheart Sally. Oh, and Astolphe and Edward... Wilhelm, and...”

As Gertrude continues to list off more of her avant-garde friends, Josephine leans into her touch, watching as Jabez fiddles with the silver from the interior of the camera.

That night, their new portrait sits proudly at their bedside, propped up next to a pile of Getrude's many books.

 


	4. 1856

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is far from an isolated affair in 1856.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at me, this is my fanfiction, I'm allowed to have a 'overly dramatic lovers quarrel that turns into a sappy declaration of love in front of a crowd of applauding people' scene! Gertie and Jo are the 1800s equivalent of a beautiful lesbian romcom couple who do cheesy shit like this on the fly and thems the facts  
> All people except for Caroline and Sally (OCs) are based off of real historic figures said to be LGBTQ+. I designed Caroline and Sally to be a contrasting couple to Gertie and Jo who keep themselves more hidden and go down the route of a lavender marriage instead of a Boston style one (which is ironic since they come from Boston).

Christmas is far from an isolated affair in 1856.

Gertrude, in a move that had surprised everyone, even Josephine, decided that the winter soiree of 1856 would be held on Christmas eve. Many of their usual guests had declined their invitations, wishing to return to their families for the festivities, so the turnout tonight has been smaller than usual. Still, Josephine takes in with warm regard the people who _have_ chosen to present themselves tonight.

Among their party guests are recognisable faces: Astolphe de Custine, looking more frail than the last time he'd graced the soiree with his presence; his lifetime companion Edward Saint-Barbe, gifting them with a bottle of Josephine's favourite brandy and a crooked yet endearing smile; Jean Baptista von Schweitzer, who greets them both with a firm handshake and mentioning with a smug grin how he is in the running for parliament and would consider practising his manifesto speech during the toasts (to which Gertrude cheerfully responded no one came to a soiree to hear a whipper-snapper like him talk politics); and Wilhelm Ténint, showing his face at the soiree for the first time since moving to Sweden following his charge of pédérastie in 1851, to which he vehemently assures anyone who mentions it that the word has a different connotation in the French language.

The soiree has been in session for nearly three cheerful hours when Caroline and Sally waltz in, arm in arm. Caroline embraces Gertrude (the notion not missed by Josephine's keen eye) while Sally politely squeezes Josephine's hand in greeting. Caroline then thrusts a familiar ribbon-tied scroll towards Josephine, her usual cityscape, with bold dark lines and a charcoal smudged sky.

“It'll be the last of Boston, I'm afraid,” she says, arm linked in Sally's once more. “Sally and I are emigrating. To England.”

“Oh?” Gertrude pulls Josephine in closer, taking a better look at the cityscape before meeting Caroline's eyes once more. “What could possibly drive you to leave your beloved Boston?”

Caroline sighs, tugging on the ruffles on her sleeve cuffs distractedly. “My artwork isn't selling well these days, Gertie.”

“I have friends who are art dealers Brighton and St Ives,” Sally adds. Her hand squeezes Caroline's arm. “They like Caroline's paintings, and believe her work can really take off there. Besides, two of my aforementioned friends – both men, both in our way inclined – are willing to marry us to prevent suspicion.”

Gertrude's face contorts in disbelief. “But the two of you have been together for a decade now! You're spinsters already, in your forties. Why have your principles changed?”

“England is a smaller place,” Caroline says with a shrug. “It would be far easier for us to be discovered, you see.”

“Poppycock. We've lived on Prince Edward Island for twenty years now, and the people here don't meddle in our affairs. We're careful, we're discreet, but we don't deny who we are. And we have never had a problem.”

“Well aren't you the _lucky_ ones,” Sally says bitterly. “Caroline had several canvases slashed last month. By people who recognised us being together in a way they couldn't comprehend. A place that we have called our home for ten years has realised what we are, and we are ostracised for it. We have been given an opportunity to end those suspicions once and for all, and to start a new life. Don't tell us it's the wrong decision.”

“I won't,” Josephine says, sliding her arm out of Gertrude's and placing it on Sally's shoulder. “I think if this is the path you think is right, you should go through with it. And I wish you both happiness.”

Caroline and Sally offer smiles that feel much too forced, and walk towards the dance floor without another word, arms still linked.

“I just can't believe those two would sell out,” Gertrude says quietly.

“It's none of our business,” Josephine murmurs.

“Would _you_ ever consider that?” Gertrude asks, turning to her suddenly. “Marry men that love the way we do, just so society thinks better of us?”

“...If the laws grow stricter,” Josephine confesses. “If a witch hunt begins. I care more about our safety than principles we never decided aloud, my love.”

Gertrude folds her arms.

“What a cowardly thing to say.”

Josephine balks. “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me.” Gertrude's eyes are bright with hurt, and she moves away from Josephine, striding through the dance floor and motioning for the string quartet to stop playing.

“Excuse me, everybody!”

The guests murmur amongst themselves, clearly confused by the change in atmosphere, some glancing back towards Josephine for some clarity. She shakes her head helplessly, watching Gertrude step up onto the elevated platform for the musicians with what feels like an anchor in her chest, pulling her through the floor and down into the earth.

“It's a tradition of mine to read a passage for you aloud. So I thought I'd recite one from memory tonight, and one that has a hold on my heart. One that so often makes me think of my dear Josephine.”

Her words are harsh, and her eyes meet Josephine's from across the dance floor, startling in their sincerity.

“ _I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you–especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.”_

Josephine begins slowly moving through the crowd, clothes weighing her down with the strength of her own wants and fears, the sensation akin to wading through water.

“ _And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.”_

Gertrude takes a deep breath, and their guests begin to part as to make room for Josephine to pass through, uniting the two of them.

“That's the one that I feel the strongest. There are more, still! _'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still.'_ Do you feel that one in here, Jo?”

She moves a hand to her chest, and Josephine stands before her, arms folded disapprovingly.

“You're making quite the spectacle, Gertrude Vassall.”

“Because I _love_ you, Josephine Barry. And to think that you would consider taking anyone but _me_ as your husband cuts right through me.”

“You know I can't do that,” Josephine huffs. “Please, and in front of our guests, too!”

“It's better entertainment than Jean Baptista's latest work,” ribs Jean Baptista's date for the night, earning him a sharp elbow to the ribs. Josephine's face reddens.

“Jo. Look at me.”

Gertrude's face is pained.

“I have one more passage – no, a single line – that I hope expresses to you the way that I feel. _'I would always rather feel happy than dignified.'_ Do you understand?”

“All of this fuss over a... a scenario,” grumbles Josephine. “Don't portray me to be some harlot ready to leave you for a handsome fellow, Gertrude. Our guests will surely get the wrong end of the stick.”

Gertrude's face softens, and the room fills with slightly more comfortable chuckles from their guests as they realise this lovers' quarrel has no real stakes to it.

“Good. I don't want you to ever take a husband, because I want to be your _wife._ However crazy that may be. This here is a room full of soulmates, people I wish to know all my life, but you are someone I wish to know every _moment_ of my life. And to all of those who find it easy to be visible, and be married, they would call that person their husband or their wife.”

Josephine sighs deeply, before reaching out a hand for Gertrude to take in her own.

“My dear Gertrude. We have been, in our own way, married for too many years now, and we have _never_ kicked up a fuss like this before.”

Gertrude grins.

“Well, we've never had quite as captive an audience before, have we?”

The whole room laughs at that, and Josephine hides her face against Gertrude's shoulder.

Someone asks after mistletoe, sending the guests into more uproar, and after pressing a kiss into Josephine's hair, Gertrude motions for the band to continue playing.

They launch into _Es ist ein Ros entsprungen_ and Jean Baptista drunkenly climbs up onto the stage and begins to sing in his native tongue, a dreamy smile on his face as he sways slowly to the music.

The party is a party again, and Josephine can only hope that this embarrassingly personal glimpse into their relationship will soon be forgotten by their guests. Then again, Josephine has never considered herself much of an optimist.

 

“If we've been married thirty years, we never did have a _voyage à la façon anglaise_ ,” Gertrude complains, pulling Josephine in to dance.

“Gertie, we travelled the world for the first ten years. Don't you think a decade long honeymoon is long enough?”

“There's no such thing as 'long enough' when it comes down to you, my dear Jo.”

A few waltzes away, Caroline and Sally step in time, hand in hand.

“I think it's pretty clear Gertrude doesn't agree with our pipe dream,” Sally says dryly. Caroline grins.

“Well, she's a wild thing, that one. Only someone as strait-laced as Josephine can keep her toeing the line, and even so.”

“If I could marry you I would, just so that you know.”

“Oh, I know that too well, my darling. And we'll always have that. We're just a little more... realistic than those two, that's all.”

Caroline reaches over to kiss Sally's hand, on the finger that will soon bear a gold wedding band.

More brandy is poured in the name of love, and the guests of Gertrude and Josephine's winter soiree dance well into the early hours of Christmas morning.

 


	5. 1866

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are formerly introduced to Josephine's nephew and his family in 1866.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeey its been a while

They are formerly introduced to Josephine's nephew and his family in 1866.

Her brother, having passed away the year before, left a large sum of money that not-so-little William Barry decided to use to make the long journey over the North Atlantic with his wife and three-year-old daughter. William had expressed in the last three letters he'd sent to Josephine that his wife had been fearing the journey in the months leading up to it after the sinking of the SS London earlier that year, after one of her childhood friends and several acquaintances had perished.

They seem to have made it safely across the oceans without incident, however, and though Josephine has heard that they have moved into a large house in the quiet town of Avonlea, they have decided to visit the old Barry home and meet Aunt Josephine (now a great-aunt, oh dear) in person.

Josephine has taken on a new hired hand recently, a man who only allows them to call him Rollings; Gertrude calls him quite the charmer, but he knows all too well that neither of his employers will be sweet on him beyond playful banter. Rollings has been helping the two of them tidy and prepare a guest bedroom. They've even made up a smaller room with a single bed for Diana, on the off chance that William and his wife don't allow her to sleep in their bed; because really, what does Josephine know about them, aside from that they are her kin?

William, whom she's only received a single photograph of, is a lot more impressive at the age of 26 than he was when he was still in napkins, that's for sure and certain. He's broad, fairly handsome if not a little on the heavier side, and his wife Eliza is a pretty little thing, with dark hair and a pinched, forced smile. Neither of them seem to know what to make of Gertrude, who knows better now from her time spent with Josephine's mother and has thankfully opted out of wearing one of her wonderful suits. She may be dressed like a lady, but she is certainly no better than William in terms of mannerisms.

“You must be my Aunt Josephine!” William exclaims, a bright smile on his face. He shakes her hand, and Josephine smiles back, but doesn't opt for a hug; physical displays of affection were never her brother's forte, and she suspects that trait may have carried down to her nephew.

“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you, William,” Josephine responds, squeezing his hand firmly before letting go. She turns to his wife. “And you must be Eliza. I have heard so much about you from William's letters.”

“A pleasure to meet another Barry in the flesh!” Eliza smiles plainly. “After the passing of William's father, I've been wondering after the rest of his family.” She glances down and Josephine follows her gaze, landing on a small child in a baby blue shawl clinging to Eliza's hand. “And this is our little Diana. Darling, this is your great-aunt, Josephine.”

“Nice to meet you,” mumbles Diana, before hiding behind Eliza. Josephine cracks her first genuine smile of the encounter; children, while definitely not her area of expertise, don't offend her when they hide behind their parents in discomfort. She too recalls being a shy child, endlessly poked and prodded into putting on a show at social functions for her parents' acquaintances to ooh and ahh over.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Diana. Do come in.” As Josephine ushers them inside, Rollings takes their coats and asks, “Should I fetch Miss Vassall, Miss Barry?”

“Please.”

“I'm assuming this is the Gertrude you often speak of?” William asks, eyebrows raised a little. “I didn't realise she would still be living here, Aunt Josephine. I know you never married, but...”

“Gertrude is the same as I,” Josephine says calmly, keeping her voice steady. She's practiced this conversation many times in front of the mirror these last few weeks. It was hard keeping her secret contained around her dying mother, but William and Eliza will likely outlive her, and she should hope to have _someone_ looking after her on her deathbed. “Gertrude and I are very close. We inspire each other. She's a celebrated author, and I help stimulate that brain of hers.”

Eliza's smile is a little strained. “I appreciate that you have been strong without a husband, Josephine, but... even with Gertrude living with you, aren't you lonely in a house as big as this?”

“Well, I host dinner parties often, and Gertrude hosts a Christmas celebration every year for all of her fellow artists. Our home is full of life and laughter, believe me.”

“ _Your_ house.”

Josephine pauses. “Excuse me?”

“The house is in our family name, Aunt Josephine,” William interrupts. “So it's your house. Not Gertrude's.”

“William!” hisses Eliza, looking mortified.

“Gertrude nursed my mother on her deathbed while your father never once visited, even for her funeral. Or our father's,” Josephine says coldly. “She sat with my mother every day and read to her and kept her company. She helped me through the grief of losing my family, while my brother sent single page letters every six months.”

“He was a busy man,” William defends, eyes narrowing.

“Gertrude had to work twice as hard as the men in her field to stay published, and she still made time to look after my mother and I. She is just as much family as my brother. When I say _our_ home, I mean it.”

“Please drop it, dear,” Eliza pleads, and William purses his lips together, visibly bristling.

“I understand now why you never married.”

Josephine stops in her tracks.

“Excuse me?”

“You care far too much about Gertrude,” he sneers, “it would scare any potential husband away–”

“Did I hear my name called?”

Gertrude, cheerful as ever, sways into the room. She's in an emerald green skirt and a white dress shirt, decorated by a black waistcoat carefully buttoned on top. She's without a top hat this time, but still commands all of the attention she did when meeting Josephine's dying mother for the first time. She strides over to where the family is gathered and holds out her hand with a beaming smile.

“You must be William! Gosh, you're far older than the baby photo we were sent, aren't you? What a pleasure to meet you, I see that good looks run in the Barry family. How splendid.”

“You, you're Gertrude? Gertrude Vassall?” William splutters.

“The very same. I'd hate to think how many other Gertrudes your aunt has running around,” chuckles Gertrude, side-eyeing Josephine. William takes her hand, baffled, and by the looks of things, Gertrude's grip is every bit as firm as the handshake she practices on bankers, doctors and any other of the snooty Charlottetown men who like to look down on them. _The trick is,_ as she once told Josephine, _to grip them hard enough that they gasp for air. You know in that moment you have some control over the situation, and you have shown them where you both stand._

William drops her hand quickly, too shocked to remark on the tight grip Gertrude exercised on him, so she turns on Eliza and gives her a once over, lips curling up into a smile that Josephine knows all too well.

“Well, aren't you a sight to behold. So divine! I hope that William is treating you well, my dear, for you shine like the sun's reflection on the waters of the maritime, don't you know?”

Eliza's cheeks redden and she clears her throat.

“Oh, well. You're very beautiful too, Gertrude.”

Gertrude shakes her hand with a fraction of the force she used on William's handshake, and beams as Eliza's face lights up. Josephine rolls her eyes fondly at the notion. Gertrude has always been brilliant with winning people over with her unfaltering optimism, and her charm has worked a treat at diffusing the tensions in the room.

Lastly, she spies Diana and kneels down at her level, smiling kindly.

“And you, my darling pet. You must be Diana. Such an exquisite name for such a dear child. Your parents must cherish you greatly, to bestow such a remarkable name upon you.”

Diana looks as though she barely understands a word of what Gertrude has just said, but the shy smile on her face tells that she at least appreciates the attention and not being baby-talked to.

“Please,” she continues, “call me Aunt Gertrude. And call our lovely Jo here Aunt Josephine. Now, what do you say I tell you the story of this magnificent island? I come from a different place, Nova Scotia, but your Aunt Josephine has spun such a marvellous tale of how Prince Edward Island came to be. There's a fairy queen, did you know that? Just think, she could be watching over all of us this very moment!”

Diana giggles, and William and Eliza exchange looks of relief that Diana seems a little more settled.

“Rollings, could you put on some tea?” Josephine requests. As Gertrude begins animatedly spinning the story of how Prince Edward Island was founded, and Josephine steers Eliza and William over to the couches and coffee table set up in the parlour, she can't help but think perhaps welcoming the Barry family back to the island will be good for them all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have the majority of the fic planned and approx half of it written already, so although i welcome suggestions and requests, i may not be able to incorporate most of them into the actual fic. still, feel free to offer any ideas up if you want! and feel free to let me know what you think! i'm hoping to upload weekly.


End file.
